


Dim Lights

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Come as Lube, M/M, Not Romance, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Araman, everything is already off course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dim Lights

Araman wasn't too cold, if you had a body to huddle against.

That was one of he many advantages of the current arrangement, Findaráto told himself, as he followed Fëanáro back to his tent for a short period of rest, two turns of the hourglass Fëanáro kept on a small chest there. 

Fëanáro wasn't even a relative any longer, Findaráto's mind went on while the older elf opened the flap of the tent and urged him to enter. He was an enemy, rather, the leader of a faction Findaráto and his own had to guard themselves against. The notion was strangely comforting. It helped make sense of the situation they had all ended up in, too.

They all had stopped being a family the moment Finwë died, because without Finwë there was no true bond between them. If they had been a family, he wouldn't have been here in the first place, there wouldn't have been any need for brothers to trade their sons as hostages, each too mistrustful of the other to go on in a semblance of collaboration without guarantees. 

Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë had agreed – after much talk, and long strained spells during which they refused to even see each other – that their firstborns wouldn't be part of the exchange, and neither would any women. Therefore Fëanáro had taken Turucáno and Aracáno, whereas Ñolofinwë had had the luxury of choice. It hadn't been too surprising that out of Fëanáro's six remaining sons he had picked Curufinwë, the one who favoured his father the most. It was widely rumoured that Curufinwë had been the one to suggest the arrangement, and that it was therefore appropriate for him to become a pawn in it (Findaráto didn't believe that – Curufinwë would never have suggested something that would torment his father so greatly). 

Ñolofinwë had also taken Macalaurë, overriding Fëanáro's impassioned protestations that one son was more than enough to bind him.

Later, after Arafinwë's defection, Fëanáro had had his revenge. He had demanded that all of Arafinwë's sons be handed over to him. Ñolofinwë had asked for two more of Fëanáro's sons in return, but Fëanáro's refusal had been scathing and unconditional: if Ñolofinwë wasn't even able to command the loyalty of his younger brother, he didn't have any right to hold in his sway those who were his betters, and he should have accounted himself lucky if Fëanáro still tolerated his audacity at all. 

Findaráto, along with his brothers, was strictly forbidden to venture out of the encampment of the Fëanorians – Fëanáro's closest retainers kept a tight vigilance on them – but Fëanáro didn't pay any attention to them, didn't view them as anything more than instruments, the same he did with Ñolofinwë's sons. 

Fëanáro spent most of his waking hours supervising the carpenters at work to repair the ships that had been damaged by the storm or smithing in a makeshift forge with Tyelperinquar to replace the weapons and other equipment that had been lost with the sunken ships. The time he spent resting was in fact so limited that Findaráto and he would probably never have gotten close if the matter of the crossing hadn't once again sparked fierce opposition between Fëanáro's and Ñolofinwë's factions.

During those conversations – never arguments, because Fëanáro either talked or stormed, and there was no in between – they had become _too_ close, the talk about who was to cross first to Middle Earth giving way with unwarranted readiness to lewd kisses that devoured words, and an even filthier intimacy. 

As he knelt down between Fëanáro's legs and undid the laces of his trousers, Findaráto told himself there was no use feeling guilty about it.

Everything had already gone wrong. He would never see his father again. His mother would probably not have wanted to see him regardless. The Valar's curse had thrown a shroud over any hope of a happy future. 

There was really no use feeling too guilty about doubling over on the furs that made up Fëanáro's bed, taking his half-hard cock into his mouth and sucking on it. It made much more sense to just indulge.

There was already a reassuring familiarity to the act, to the sucking and licking, and the way he carefully fucked his mouth on Fëanáro's cock – never taking it too deep, because he liked it better that way, and because he wanted to taste the drops that began oozing from the slit. He lingered for a while on the tip, gathering that precious fluid on his tongue, then brought his head down and took the shaft halfway in. He stopped again to swivel his tongue on its underside, relishing both its hardness and its scent. He reveled in the very feel of it on his tongue, silky and heavy. 

He didn't even need to dart his eyes up anymore, he knew how Fëanáro would look at those moments. Fëanáro's eyes would be closed, his body slanted as he propped himself up on his left elbow, in an almost insouciant posture, while his right hand squeezed his shirt against his chest to prevent it from getting in the way of Findaráto's ministrations.

Findaráto's right hand joined his mouth, curling around the base and stroking it. He kept moving his head up and down, returning from time to time to the tip to suckle, savour, until Fëanáro stopped him. 

“Enough,” he commanded, voice low but not any less powerful for it. 

Findaráto reluctantly slid his lips up over the shaft, but lingered again on the tip before letting it go. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hands and looked up.

“I have been told you agree with Lalwen's proposal,” Fëanáro unexpectedly said next, as Findaráto's hand too uncurled from around his cock. 

Findaráto had been expecting more orders – to ride Fëanáro or to get in his lap and grind them together. He unconsciously slipped his now free hand to the erection that strained his own pants, straightening and shifting slightly where he knelt on the bed. 

“It is a...practical one,” he said, refraining at the last moment from saying 'sensible'. “We cannot send the children and those who are unable to fight –”

“I know that,” Fëanáro sharply interposed, “I simply do not see the necessity of leaving one of my sons behind.”

Lalwen had suggested that Maitimo and Findecáno remain in Araman to lead the second part of the host. Findaráto could easily guess why she had. Lalwen wanted to be absolutely sure that Fëanáro would send the ships back. “Findecáno and Maitimo are best suited to organise the second crossing.”

Fëanáro huffed and his jaw set in a tense grimace that spoke of distress more than anger. He looked like he would have rather ripped his own heart out of his chest than left one of his sons behind. His eyes flickered down, and his right hand crawled to the spot where a sequence of little indentations marked his left thigh, wounds he had scarred into his own flesh, one for each day (the best approximation of a day they could measure) he had been apart from his sons. They grew longer as time passed, and deeper. Findaráto had seen them twice, when Fëanáro had had some water warmed up and they had bathed, together. 

Findaráto hesitated for a moment, then bent down again and his tongue darted towards that spot, licking the soot-stained leather of Fëanáro's pants. Fëanáro inhaled noisily, and his hand landed heavy on Findaráto's head, evidently to push him away, but he didn't actually do it. Findaráto shivered under its pressure, while his tongue lapped at that one spot. He could almost imagine the smooth texture of the small scars in the skin under his tongue. 

When he lifted his head again, a patch of wetness stood out against the pants even in the half-darkness. “I am sure the crossings will go well,” he hazarded, his lips dripping spit and his cheeks flushed, the taste of leather pungent on his tongue. 

Fëanáro stared fixedly down at him, and for a moment his eyes blazed. The shadows thrown by the faint light from the only lamp lit in the upper-left corner of the tent lay deep on his face, making his stare seem even more formidable. Findaráto feared he would be dismissed, but after a time Fëanáro sat up straight and gestured for him to get on all fours in the middle of the bed. 

That was by far better than talk. Findaráto crawled up the furs and folded his legs under himself. He didn't take his clothes off. He would have wanted the contact of skin on skin, but Araman was cold and they had no wood to spare for personal fires, so they had to remain clothed. It was almost more wanton to be fucked in the same clothes he had to wear to appear in public. 

Fëanáro tugged on his trousers and undergarments, forcing them down to his knees and leaving them crumpled around them. Findaráto opened his legs as wide as their constraint allowed, and tilted his ass up, his cock dangling erect between them, testimony to his arousal and anticipation. Fëanáro's coarse hands – the same hands which had killed – parted Findaráto's asscheeks, his fingers digging in his flesh, to expose his hole. His thumbs traced the ring of muscle that was to receive him, sending a shiver through Findaráto's body, then he spat twice in Findaráto's cleft and the fingers of his left hand released his buttock to smear his spit over and inside Findaráto's opening, not bothering to actually open him up, just making sure that his passage would be slicked enough to allow his entry. His right hand took hold of Findaráto's erection instead, stroking along its whole length, a fluttery caress that made Findaráto shudder and writhe around the fingers in his ass in an attempt to get more.

His release built up quickly, rising like a wave. Fëanáro's left hand retreated from his ass and cupped the tip of his cock, ready to catch his spending. Findaráto made up for the emptiness by fucking himself against Fëanáro's fingers, his thighs quivered, and he shot his seed all over them. Without any delay, Fëanáro worked that too inside him, and his cock followed suit. Findaráto was eager for it, tilted his ass further up and pushed back. 

The breach was as uncomfortable as ever – he was never loose enough for Fëanáro to just slide in. Fëanáro worked himself in slowly but steadily, never stopping once after his the head of his cock had fit into the narrow passage until he was buried balls-deep inside it. Findaráto squeezed his eyes shut and let out a wild growl. He _should_ have kept his voice down. Fëanáro's sons were constantly at their father's side, and Findaráto knew that at least one of them always kept vigil whenever he rested, sitting silent beyond the tapestry hung in the middle of the tent (it hadn't been there before Findaráto started visiting). He didn't care. The whole encampment could have heard, he would have still have voiced his pleasure, the shameless thrill in feeling so full, in being pried open again and again as Fëanáro started moving. 

Fëanáro didn't thrust, he pounded into him, hard and relentless. His balls smacked against Findaráto's ass and the hem of his pants scraped against Findaráto's thighs every time he drove in. Findaráto reopened his eyes, but the darkness he stared into was almost the same as that behind his eyelids. His hands clawed at the silky fur, scrambling for support while he exerted all his strength in rocking back onto the thick shaft. Fëanáro grasped his sides as his pace grew even more frantic, leaving traces of spit and semen on his shirt to add to the stains already on it, then his hands slid down and cupped his asscheeks. He stuck his thumbs inside Findaráto's asscrack again and traced his stretched rim with them. 

Findaráto was groped, pulled, slammed into and he moaned and keened. Fëanáro's breathing grew laboured, but he never relented. When his seed spilt hot deep in Findaráto's passage, it was like a brand to definitively seal their fall. 

Findaráto slumped forward on the bed and his sweat-pearled forehead sunk into the fur. He was warm, blissfully warm, in and out. His ass stung as Fëanáro's cock slipped out of it, but even that felt strangely pleasant. Fëanáro deftly straightened his clothes and rolled him over to tuck them both under the covers before the humid cold of Araman could overcome them.

Huddling together was a necessity, not a demonstration of affection. Findaráto lay facing away from Fëanáro, but Fëanáro glued himself to his back and his right arm circled Findaráto's waist. Findaráto closed his eyes. The sweat had already begun to dry on his body, but the wetness in his ass would stay there for a while, and it was that his mind focused on as darkness enveloped him.

**Author's Note:**

> I had started this for Trick or Treat – recip said they didn't want fluffy ships hence the slightly darker tone – and in my mind this set-up leans towards canon divergence.


End file.
